Prologue
Winter caught us traveling. My friend and I told each other fairy tales, drank ginger ale, and in our free time, we chatted up strangers. It was wonderful. We were the center of the galaxy. My companion's eyes were huge, like lanterns. When his pupils dilated, I felt a new galaxy forming somewhere in the universe. And when my eyelids settled into their proper places above my cheeks, I could hear explosions from distant corners of the sky.
Having explored the far reaches of America ourselves, we slowly returned home. To Siwe Pole. Over time, my companion became increasingly dreamy. At times, even absent.
"I can't wait," he announced one afternoon.
"What?" I asked instinctively, not taking my eyes off the asphalt road.
"Home," he replied.
"Aha," I had to respond, but I had no idea where we were. "Just a little further," I said, wanting to comfort him.
"Okay," he realized I was probably lying, but he preferred not to think about it.
We didn't talk much the rest of the day.
Winter was autumnal in color. Ahead of us, peaks and rolling hills stretched across the horizon. November fields stretched out on both sides of the road. The desert hues of grain smoothed the slightly uneven terrain. A dozen or so paces ahead, lonely in its uselessness, stood a "yield" sign.
"Probably from the wind," I joked.
The man didn't pick up on the subject.
"Did you hear they found JFK's brain?" I asked.
"No," he said, as if a crab had pinched his butt. "Where, did you hear about that?"
"A long time ago. In that newspaper, Takt."
"Seriously? They write about that kind of crap there?"
The man had a master's degree in Cleaning and Disposal at the University of Siwe Pole. I always felt a bit embarrassed. I was a lousy law professor. A profession with no future.
"Yes," I replied. "Not everyone is eloquent enough to read the Quail Gazette all the time."
"See, that's why you haven't heard that Britney Spears is pregnant with a banana!"
I gasped.
"Really? How is that possible?
" "There are no taboos in this world anymore." The gentleman loved to complain about the consumerist lifestyle. He was perfectly familiar with Tomchak's law of economics. The famous "307" rule. Give everyone 307 pesos a month, and they'll buy a new Peugeot 307. But that was his utopia. "If you have money, you can buy your dog a Rolls Royce," he continued, "there's no taboo."
"Amazing. With a banana... And you don't know when the wedding is?"
"Unfortunately," he replied, disconsolate. "On the next page, I had to... you know," he began making strange, dry, occasionally whistling sounds from his cigarette lungs. In his youth, he'd been called the Marlboro Man, but he didn't like that nickname.
"I don't know," I replied. "That's the point! Tell me, what did you have to do? What was more important than the news of the year!?
" "I had to take a shit," he shouted. "And there was no more paper.
" "I understand—it's best not to pursue such topics.
" "And what about JFK's brain?" he inspected the lining of his hat.
"What?
" "The brain," he drawled impatiently.
"Yes, the brain. Sorry," I mused. "Among the excavations in Retkinia, they found the ruins of a McDonald's. And there, in a fossilized sandwich, a Big Mac, I think. The discovery was made by that famous anthropologist, Retkinia specialist Gawin"—I tried to recall as many details as possible. "He searched for it for 20 years." First, on retkinian discussion forums. He could scour anyone for information. He's terribly hyperactive, even for an anthropologist.
"Aha," the gentleman replied. "That wasn't his cup of tea. Over time, I began to realize that, ever since I met him, it wasn't mine either. His words stuck in my head for a long time.
"Britney. So young, beautiful, and talented, and she hangs out with bananas—I couldn't accept that. She was my idol. A legend, despite her young age. On Sankovsky magazine's list of all-time artists, she surpassed Bob Dylan and the band O-Zone."
Chapter I
But enough about politics. Even though the days were sometimes cloudy, we didn't lose our good spirits. Everything would have been perfectly fine if not for one evening. One night, while I was telling my friend a story about the Non-Existent Knight, he unexpectedly interrupted me mid-punch.
"Henryk, it's just like me." He nervously kneaded the edge of his coat in his hands.
I gasped for air.
"What do you mean?
" "In the sense that I don't exist either."
I looked at his worn coat, his old hat, his tattered scarf, and indeed, he didn't exist. At least not under the coat, or under the hat, and certainly not under the scarf. He simply wasn't there. The steam wasn't rising from his mouth, but from the void behind his collar. I don't remember if I'd noticed it before. Perhaps I had, but I simply pushed the thought away. We often talked, and I could feel it coming. I would have told him, but then something would block it. Such a strange feeling. Like when you know a record inside and out, every bar, every note. And you're listening to it at a party. The sounds of your favorite song fill every thought, every breath. A brilliant solo is about to come on, when suddenly someone switches to the radio. And it is a feeling of disappointment, emptiness, unfulfillment.
That's the simplest and most accurate way to describe my feeling when the thought everyone expected didn't arrive. And since it didn't, there was no point in worrying my friend unnecessarily.
But now tea was over. He'd learned. What's more, the problem wasn't the information itself, but the difficulty it posed. This problem had to be solved so that the gentleman could function normally. That's how it is when everything goes to hell at once.
Chapter II
When we were a dozen or so kilometers from Grey Field, I began to look for a seemingly invisible path hidden in the tall grass. I'd once heard from Old Catfish's uncle about a forest hidden among the meadows. You can't see it from the main trail, which is why it's so difficult to find. The fact that the road leading to it is camouflaged, like a Chinese man in Chinatown, didn't make things any easier. In this forest, the uncle told me, grew a gigantic oak. His name was Baron Boulderwood. He was the king of all trees and knew the answer to almost any question imaginable. Of course, due to his age, he's not satisfactorily versed in contemporary literature or modern technologies. Fortunately, questions in these areas weren't within our area of interest. My uncle had told me about this place many times, at every family celebration. So I felt confident enough to find the Baron. Walking along the edge of the asphalt, I searched for something that might be a hidden path in the field. The gentleman watched me closely the entire time.
"I'll explain later," I replied, exasperated by the protracted search.
He muttered something under his breath. His absence was incredibly troubling. When the temperature rose above freezing, it was impossible to tell where he was looking. His hat pointed north, so
he probably had his gaze fixed on the horizon ahead. Basically, I didn't care. God seemed to be painting the landscape around us from a single sheet of paper. After a few hours of staring at the uninterrupted stretch of meadows, I felt as if I were floating among them. I was the wind. The grass stalks bent under the weight of my fin. And I comb them like my beloved's hair in the morning.
Unfortunately, my friend tore me from the grip of these wonderful illusions.
"Doesn't that look like a road to you?" he pointed with his hat.
"What? Where?" I didn't know whether to look at his nonexistent hand or the concrete monolith of the meadow around him.
"Here, where the grass is a little lower—there was indeed a place where the tops of the plants seemed to have sunk.
I stepped closer. The stems bent, revealing a fragment of a well-trodden path. With each step, more fragments emerged. It was like a mosaic hidden among the grass. We played at piecing together a path from the grass for so long that we lost sight of the path we had been following. There was no turning back. Evening was approaching inexorably, and we still couldn't find the forest. The evening fog was thickening around us. It was nearing the moment it would become permanent. I felt its weight on my shoulders. At some point, it began to thin. The forest came into view. We decided we wouldn't risk wandering blindly and would wait until tomorrow.
Especially since a large bison was guarding the road to Baron. After spreading out our sleeping bags, we admired the sky and the moon shining in the north.
Chapter III
The next day, we bravely entered the forest. After overcoming a barrier of large ferns, we found ourselves on a narrow path. It resembled a corridor among tall trees. Because of my height, I led the way. We walked through the entire, gloomy, dark, and silent forest. Clouds hung low in the sky. They seemed tangled in the treetops. I was slowly losing my mind and hope. The landscape was terribly monotonous. So monotonous that I felt as if we hadn't advanced an inch. It looked like a trick from an old movie. We stood still, and behind us, a film of forest footage played. Just when I thought we had fallen victim to a trap, to fate's decreed monotony, I saw light at the end of the tunnel. I felt an incredible sense of relief. The moment wasn't enveloped in poetry, but in an animalistic, primal, even vulgar feeling.
"So this forest does end eventually," I said, spitting out the remnants of last year's cold.
I looked at the gentleman, expecting an oratorical feast from him. Unfortunately, he only treated me to a wheezing breath, through which no words could have gotten through anyway. I waved my fin at him. Then, tiptoeing, we approached the exit. The forest ended, but only on the right, where a small clearing stretched. This entire area was gathered by a stream. To the left, among the trees, lay an opening. Small, like a hole in a fence. This must have been the passage to the Baron. And just as everything was starting to fall into place, I heard my friend catch his breath. I looked at him, then straight ahead. We were both likely experiencing near-heart attacks at that moment. Although he was no longer in danger. Standing by the stream was the largest bison I'd ever seen.
Fortunately, his back was to us, which gave us a chance. We slowly emerged from behind the trees. In an instant, the space around us diminished disproportionately. The bison seemed within arm's reach. Fortunately, he was busy examining the surface of the water. Taking advantage of his distraction, we quickly jumped into the hole. We tumbled down a small slope, tripping over a dozen roots along the way. We stopped at a large tree.
I stood up, slightly dazed. The world was still spinning a bit. What's more, the tree was moving.
"My God, it's really moving," the gentleman said, leaning against the trunk.
Leaves began to fall, like paratroopers during an Allied landing.
My friend jumped to his feet.
"That must be Baron Boulderwood," I whispered and bowed.
The gentleman didn't understand, so I had to tug at his coat. The tree's bark began to crack. Heavy eyelids lifted, revealing green pupils. A large, toothless mouth gaped.
"Who dares interrupt my rest?" the voice sounded like the clatter of stampeding bison.
"We, dear Baron—" the tension was incredible. I expected a bolt of lightning at any moment. "We sincerely apologize for this intrusion, but we have come on a very important matter."
The Baron glanced at us. He seemed to treat our words rather nonchalantly.
"I suppose that's obvious," he scratched his right cheek with a small twig. "Nobody comes to me about trivial matters," he snorted with a ribald, Sarmatian laugh. "At least that's what they all think."
I waited a moment for the booming of his voice to subside.
"Exactly, we wanted to ask—"
"And what's that bison doing there?!" he screamed, so loud that leaves must have fallen from the trees in the entire forest.
"He was looking at himself in the water," I replied, hoping that would end the foreplay.
"How did he fall for that? There's no philosopher's stone in this river!" I started laughing. I love laughing when I don't know what's going on.
"I wanted him to stop coming for coffee and bothering me all the time," he continued. "Damn, the philosopher's found his way. It's high time we found someone younger for the job. Do you happen to know anyone like that?
" "Bolec, he'd be suitable," said the gentleman.
"What are you talking about, boy?" the Baron said indignantly. "Bolec works for Gandolf from Szczecin now. I see you know nothing. I need to check you out before I give you any advice. "
He thought for a moment, then the wind whispered something in his ear.
"I've got it," he laughed mockingly. "Tell me, what's your favorite poem?
He's done for us here." The gentleman didn't read poetry. So he hid his nonexistent face in his collar. I, on the other hand, hadn't read anything in ages. I had to take a risk and go for something classic.
"Markonius the Green's 'Eradication of Noise'!" I shouted breathlessly.
The Baron looked at us. I thought it was over. Then he smiled, perhaps the most sincerely of his life.
"I love him too," he began gesturing with his branches. "Such a perverse eulogy with a hint of decadence. Markonius was light years ahead of his generation." He came to his senses and calmed the wind around him.
"All right. Speak." He looked at us, carefully measuring the gentleman with his eyes. "What's the matter?"
I grabbed my friend's sleeve before he could say anything. He had no talent for diplomacy.
"So...
" "You don't start a sentence with 'so'!" I felt like I was in a school for the overseers. "Many things irritate me because of my age, but ignoring grammar rules has been making me nauseous since time immemorial.
" "My sincerest apologies. It's just emotion," I bowed low. My fins were trembling paralyzedly. "My friend, as the esteemed Baron can probably see, doesn't exist.
" "Interesting, indeed. How could that have happened?
" "Probably from a shot to the head with a large-caliber weapon. Although for a while, he simply had a hole in his head." I pulled out a photo from our trip to Middletown.
The photo showed us, Mr. Baron, and a pretty waitress, who was sitting on my friend's lap. I showed the photo to Baron.
"She's quite a hottie," he said with a dreamy look in his eyes, then looked at us, slightly confused. "I mean... well... that's right. There was a hole in the head.
" "Exactly. And everything was fine, and now?" I pointed to my friend.
"Yes, but does that bother you, son?" he turned to Mr. Baron.
My friend took a deep breath.
"I'm trapped in my skin," he said with such sadness in his voice that I could give him my last savings and send it to an account in Switzerland. "I can feel her." But I can't see. It's as if her color had locked in pigment.
The Baron sighed heavily.
"I'm sorry, guys, but there's nothing I can do. True, they took one pine and two spruces from my forest last year, so if they brought you back, we'd have, to put it simply, the status quo ante. But unfortunately, that's a matter for someone higher up. You have to go along those birch trees, then turn right by the poplars. Not far away, there's a small hut with a sign saying "cinema." They'll tell you what to do there. That's all I can say on the matter.
"Thank you very much, Baron.
" "No problem. It was nice chatting with you.
We left sad, but with a glimmer of hope in our hearts.
" "But if you have a problem with a wild llama or would like to play a game of utilitarian poker, you're welcome!" the Baron called after us.
Chapter IV
Leaving the Boulder Tree, we followed the path that would lead my friend to the answers we needed. At first, it seemed to lead travelers to the end of the world, but soon, in the distance, we saw a large sign on the roof of a tiny cottage. "Cinema."
"I hope they know something here," the gentleman rushed forward. I could see the imprint of his hand holding his hat. His coat left the illusion of supersonic speed behind him.
The cinema box office was closed. Reaching the door, he began testing their stubbornness with his fists.
"Now, now," came an ancient voice from the distance.
The door opened. A kind old man with eerie, mesmerizing, and very young eyes greeted us with the widest smile we'd ever seen.
"Henry and Your Grace, I presume?" he looked at us fatherly.
"That's right," we confirmed.
"Tickets, please," he said in a friendly, yet irritating voice.
"What tickets?" We began rummaging in our pockets. Suddenly, the gentleman pulled out a small, green slip of paper. I looked in disbelief, then pulled out one myself. I hadn't even had a pocket before.
We handed him the tickets and entered a small room with an old, yellowed screen. The lights dimmed. The projector started rolling. On the screen, we saw the title: "Gentleman; Life and Death" and that strangely familiar voice. Bass, with an unusual resonance.
"This summer. Gentleman accidentally shot himself in the face
with a shotgun. Now he's gone and has to fight for his existence."
"It's that guy from the trailers!" I turned to my friend. "Don La..." I felt a hand on my shoulder. It was the ticket agent.
"Shh..." he smiled broadly.
"Is that God?" the gentleman asked.
The guy didn't answer. He just nodded meaningfully.
"I knew it! It even makes sense," I was once again reminded.
We focused on the film.
"He has one chance to redeem himself.
But does he deserve it?"
Suddenly, homemade films appeared on the screen, depicting my friend's childhood. There were quite a few graphic scenes, like the torture of a bee caught on a shoelace at age seven. A candy bar stolen from a store at age twelve. But after all these scenes depicting acts that were at least heinous, came a fragment of film, of life, in which the gentleman gave his last cigarette to some bum in Siwe Pole. True, the man died a month later of lung cancer, but the impact of the gesture was immense.
"Our hero...
gets another chance," a voice announced.
We jumped for joy. On the way out, an older man gave the gentleman a small sachet containing an unidentifiable white powder.
"Take it every day," he wagged his aging finger. "Morning and evening for the next week," and then waved goodbye.
Epilogue
Overjoyed, we returned to Grey Field. I couldn't even express my happiness. Perhaps only the quiet possessed this ability to experience true delight. I couldn't feast my eyes on the junkies pouring out of the gutter in the rain. A sight that many a Red Cross medic would have applauded with a peacock's delight. But this was my world. My new home. The scent of oranges from the stalls mingled with the odor of used condoms on the sidewalks. A mosaic of newspapers floating in puddles. Over time, the gentleman began to regain himself. Finally, the day arrived when he was to appear to me for the first time since we met. He came to me, burying his face in his hands.
"I never thought I would regain myself. My body and my being. Everything!" he trembled with excitement. "I've always thought that the probability of an event is inversely proportional to the wish.
" "You see, nothing is impossible for someone who doesn't have to do it themselves. Come on. Show yourself." He
revealed his face. I was speechless. The hole in his head disappeared, his skin regained its elasticity. His three-day stubble looked velvety and dignified. I had the impression that the universe had just lost its delicate balance.
"And what do I look like?" he asked.
I looked at him more closely, then replied.
"More or less like my legs," I replied diplomatically.
"So...?" he insisted.
"Asymmetrically."
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